by William Bell
Which is more than I’ve ever done. Now they were dead. Life isn’t fair. It isn’t even logical.
That was one of her favourite expressions, I thought as I tore her letters into shreds and gave them to the fire. “Life isn’t fair, Crabbe,” she’d say whenever I was in the middle of one of my complaining fits. She wouldn’t say it sarcastically; just stated it like it was a thought that had just occurred to her. The first time it came out was just a couple of weeks after I had come to her. I was going hell bent in a tirade against my phony parents and stupid teachers and boring life - all that crap. We had been swimming and were sitting on a huge granite slab that rose out of the water near our campsite, letting the hot sun dry us.
When I stopped for breath, she said, “Look, Grumpy, you’ve got a family, a house to live in, a place to make your mind and body grow, money to do some interesting things, parents who care about you -in spite of what you say. What the hell do you want, jam on it?”
I laughed, without wanting to. I had a great aunt who used that old expression as often as she could.
“No, don’t laugh, Kiddo,” she said seriously, getting wound up like she always did when she was trying to make a point.
“Look, whose life is it, anyway?”
“Mine.”
“Okay. If it’s not a life you like, who should fix it?”
I was trapped. I had been running through my “blame list” as I often did when I was depressed or unhappy (which, then, was most of the time).
“I guess I should,” I said. “But — ”
“Never mind, ‘guess,’” she interrupted. “It’s a fact Crabbe. Waiting around for somebody to change your life for you is a loser’s game. Who’s going to do it? You’re not a child, remember. And if some fairy godmother did offer to take on the job, how could she possibly get it right? Only you know what you want. She’d fail. And that’d just give you somebody else to blame.”
She paused for a breath, then continued.
“You know what I think, Crabbe? I think a person reaches maturity when he strikes the last name off the blame list.”
We talked some more about all that. The sun on our skin and the beauty of the day made it hard to be ambitious. Then she said it.
“Well, life isn’t fair, Crabbe. But trying to build a life of significance despite the unfairness can be exciting. I don’t mean soft or easy or contented. I mean exciting. Philosophers might give that attitude a fancy title, like existentialism. A life without fairness is always worth living; a life without significance isn’t.”
“Who decides what is significant?” I asked.
“Whose life is it?”
All this I remembered as I sat by the fire on that sombre day, feeding the last shreds of paper to the flames.
Then, WHAM! — it hit me.
She had killed her husband!
As soon as the thought hit me, I was certain of it.
I don’t know what you think of mercy killing. I don’t know what I think of it either. But a lot of people are against it, and so is the law. Mary knew that.
She took her husband’s life, and the rest of her own, into her own hands. She committed murder, merciful murder, then ran away.
I pictured her visiting him, standing beside the bed with its starched, white linen, talking to the wasted man who had no idea of her presence. I saw her kiss him softly on his pale forehead, then do something to the machines that kept him in a world he should have been allowed to leave with dignity.
It was coming on dark by the time all this was figured out and all the possessions were burned. It was getting dark very early these days. Knowing the answers about her didn’t make me feel any better. But it made me admire her more, knowing she had had the courage to do that.
God, how I wished she was with me!
Crabbe’s Journal: 19
Remember what I said about omens? Well, sometimes omens are cold and hard and easy to figure. I had spent quite a few days moping around, feeling depressed and sorry for myself, not doing much of anything, when I woke one morning to find four inches of snow had fallen during the night. It was still coming down in fat, wet flakes undisturbed by wind. My firewood and equipment had disappeared under soft mounds of snow and the landscape looked suddenly and completely whitewashed.
So, I had a decision to make. Very soon I’d be trapped for the winter. My exit required open water and portages that had no more than a foot or so of snow: I couldn’t imagine ploughing through any more than that with a canoe on my shoulders. Our little bay had a skin of ice on it every morning.
It was a matter of leaving now, before a real cold snap froze up the waterways completely, or staying all winter. An easy decision. But it took that snowfall to yank me out of the fog of depression I was in.
I spent the morning getting fed, checking what equipment I had, and carefully studying the map. Again, I had two choices: go back the way I came or try to work out a better route, one that was either easier or quicker.
I was going to try another route. The time I spent coming down river before I fell over the falls would be doubled or quadrupled going the other way. That current had been pretty strong. And there was still the other, narrow creek, after the first lake, the one I tried to learn to steer on. All that upriver travel and the many portages made me shudder.
So I studied the map for a long time. I could find Ithaca Camp easily enough and there were a few possible routes, But I had to try and figure out by the contours whether I would have to travel up or down a particular river, to keep my eye open for rapids and falls, to estimate the length of portages (the length changes with the seasons and so does the depth of rapids).
All that took some thought but I put together a route that was a bit longer than my original and, I hoped, a lot easier. It was late afternoon by then and the snow had stopped. A breeze began to bend the smoke from the fire. That would mean the storm clouds might move off during the night.
I searched out another of Mary’s caches and lugged it back to the fire. It was then I realized that the deep snow was going to be a problem. My legs were damp from snow melting on my pants. And I knew now that in winter dampness or wetness was my greatest enemy. It’s impossible to keep warm if you’re wet. If you stay dry and stay on the move it can get super cold and you’ll still be safe (up to a point of course). Your body heat will keep you warm.
So what I needed was leggings. Since I planned to carry only one pack, I took another and cut it up and, in the fading light, I made a crude pair of leggings that tied on just above my knees. Then, since I was such a wonderful tailor, I took another pack, cut three holes in it, and had a “coat” that would come in handy if I ran into cold wind or more snow.
It was just coming on light when I got up. The snow looked light grey, the line of the trees almost black. I was kind of looking forward to the trip after doing nothing for so long. I tried not to look too far forward, though, to my coming back to the city. I decided to take one day at a time.
I didn’t bother with a fire — all the equipment was packed up — just drank some water (I kept a bottle in my sleeping bag each night so it wouldn’t freeze) and munched a mouthful of the awful but nourishing stuff Mary kept in the caches — jerky, fat, and berries all pounded together into chewy bars. After a last minute inventory (waterproofed sleeping bags, tent and fly, extra clothes, food, map and compass, matches — waterproofed this time!) I was standing on the shore, ready to go.
After the canoe was loaded up, I turned and tried to work up a goodbye to what had been my home for five months or more. But it looked so different, snow covered and empty. From where I stood you could hardly even tell anyone had been there; it looked like just another clearing, cold and desolate.
So I turned, shook the snow off my boots, and pushed off out onto the lake.
There’s a strange beauty to the bush in winter. It was still overcast that morning and the landscape was a blend of black, white and shades of grey. The lake was the colour of shale, and smoo
th. With its brightness muted without the sun the snow was a softened white, stretching away from the water. There were patches of birch along the shore. The black blotches on the white bark and the dark, smaller branches brought them out of the background in sharp relief. The grey hardwoods stood naked and cold. In the distance the hills showed a faint touch of reddish brown. The only colour in the scene came from the stands of vivid green spruce and cedars that crowded together in the low places.
I won’t record all the details of the trip. The weather held pretty well; that’s to say it was cold but not cold enough to lock up all the lakes. The shorelines were all fringed with ice, though. I got some light snow, some sun — a good mixture. And I made pretty good time, all in all. For one thing, I had only one pack to carry. That meant one trip on the portages because I could take both pack and canoe at one time. For another, I was in good shape, strong and able to work all day.
By the morning of the fourth day I was ready for the last leg. I had to do a portage of around eight miles and I’d end up on the shore of the lake Ithaca Camp was on. My plan was to spend the night where the portage began and devote the next day to the crossing. The map showed the terrain to be rolling hills — challenging but nothing terrible.
I got up at dawn as usual and hung the sleeping bags while I prepared a big breakfast with lots of strong tea and more food than usual. (The bags have to be hung so as to dry out the moisture that gathers in them during the night from your body heat and breathing. If you don’t do that, the bag will be cold the next night and never really warm up.)
The wind should have been a warning. But I was anxious to attack that portage. As I cooked and ate breakfast, the wind was picking up speed quickly and turning colder. You should always pay attention to the wind if you live outdoors. Sailors know that. So did I, but, as I said, my mind was on other things. I had no idea I was about to walk into the teeth of the worst and earliest blizzard for years and almost kill myself in the process. I was at water level in hilly country. There’s no real horizon in country like that and the wind is cut down and deflected by the hills.
Anyway, off I went, trudging through the snow in my classy leggings. I was following what was probably a fishermen’s portage in summer so, aside from the difficulties of walking uphill in snow, the going was pretty reasonable.
Another thing I didn’t notice early enough though was body temperature. Normally, awhile after I started working, I’d be shedding some clothing so as not to get damp with sweat. But today I had no desire to remove anything. As a matter of fact, when I topped a hill later in the morning and put down the canoe and pack to rest, I felt colder and dug out my bag-coat to give me some protection against the rising wind.
It was bitter cold by now. My breath clouds were snatched away each time I exhaled. Around the edges of my toque and on my sideburns the water vapour from my breath had frozen to form a rim of ice.
I looked up at the top branches of the hardwoods to see them waving frantically. Lots of wind up there, I thought. There was no sun in the darkening sky, a sky of deep grey with a tinge of purple in the northwest.
When the snow arrived, tiny flakes whipping frantically around, I knew I was in for something.
The problem was, I figured I must be half-way to the lake: it would be crazy to turn back. So I shouldered my burdens and marched on, weaving downhill through the trees, trying not to slide.
It wasn’t long after that that I was wearing every piece of clothing I owned. I had one pair of wool socks stuffed down my neck to make a scarf and another on my hands. The snow was thick now and even in the little valleys between the hills it was swirling and driving, piling up quickly on the ground and packing into the creases in my clothing. I must have looked like a ghost. I wore the compass on a thong around my neck and consulted it frequently because I couldn’t see very far. I was glad my head was under the canoe, protected from the angry wind.
Soon fear began to hammer away at me, strengthening with every gust of the icy wind. I felt that I had to keep moving so I wouldn’t freeze. I knew I was still on course. But even when I reached the lake, what then? Try to cross it in a blinding blizzard?
I was between two high hills now in a gully where the wind was a bit less violent. I decided to rest. Flipping the canoe off my shoulders, I dropped the pack and sat down on it. No longer protected by the hull of the boat, my face and hands soon felt the sting of the wind and I feared that frostbite was on the way.
I looked around. Over on my right, about ten yards along the gully, was a huge deadfall. A thick maple had fallen from the steep bank, its roots ripped from the shallow soil, and had come to rest on a giant granite boulder. Between the boulder and the roots was a sort of cave.
When I saw that, I made a quick and, as it turned out, wise decision. Animals hole up in storms, I thought. So do people if they have any sense.
I lugged all my truck over to the spot. Using my paddle, I scooped most of the snow out of the “cave,” there wasn’t much because the big root network, clogged with dirt, took the force of the wind. I left enough snow to make a floor by packing it down. Then I dragged the canoe to the windward side and propped it between rock and tree. I pulled the tent out of the pack and, using the nearly horizontal tree trunk as a ridge pole, fashioned a roof by tying the lines to the bottom gunwale of the canoe on one side and weighing down the other side with rocks. I packed snow around the little house, banking it with the paddle, so that no wind could enter from the ground level.
I checked the thing over very carefully, walking around it a couple of times, then entered on the leeward side, dragging the pack in after me. The only problem now was that the snow floor would be cold. I took off my canvas pack-coat, folded one of the sleeping bags and stuffed it inside, making a thick pillow. I sat down on it and leaned against the tree roots, grateful for the chance to rest. The tiny cave soon warmed up.
I could still hear the wind howling and wailing now, which meant that the storm was getting even worse. The nylon roof of my cubbyhole rustled and snapped, reminding me that it would need support against the weight of snow. Quickly scooting outside, I felt my way along the maple trunk, punished by the wind and blinded by the snow. I got my paddle and snapped off a few branches from the tree trunk.
Back inside, I wedged the three branches between the boulder and the ground. On the canoe side I used the paddle as a rafter. Things looked pretty secure now. I was dry, warm and safe.
Naturally, I immediately thought of food and was soon gnawing away on jerky. Water was a bit of a problem. I ate snow very slowly so as not to cool myself down too much. Once my thirst was gone the warmth and rest made me drowsy. I soon dropped off.
I dozed on and off all night, coming fully awake after daylight had arrived. Of course the only way I knew it was daylight was to lift a corner of the nylon and push a lot of the snow aside. The wind was still about its work but seemed less severe. There was one hell of a lot of snow out there too.
The cave felt strange, sort of oppressive, and until I pulled the nylon aside a bit I found it hard to get my breath. That could only mean that my cave had been sealed off by the drifting snow and I had been rebreathing the air inside. I didn’t want to leave the flap open: icy air quickly sneaked in, bringing gusts of fine, powdered snow with it. So I snapped off a twig from the maple and carefully punched a half dozen holes through my roof in places where the nylon didn’t quite meet the rock.
A bit of light came in, enough to let me grope around and find some food. I filled a cup with snow as an experiment to see if the cave’s heat was enough to melt it. Nope, although it was pretty warm inside, enough so the nylon roof, which sagged between my makeshift rafters with the weight of the snow, was coated with a film of ice.
I sat back against the roots and munched some food. I started to think about what I would do when I got back. Don’t think I missed my parents, or anybody else for that matter, because I didn’t. But I really had no plan, or many choices.
Or did I
? Maybe I had more choices than I thought. One thing I was sure about: I would decide. I’d had it with living my life the way other people wanted. Mary had told me, “Waiting around for somebody else to fix your life is a fool’s game.” Well, I was ready to take the responsibility. No more complaints about how hard done by I was. Hell, if I could make it out of this storm I could handle the rest of it.
That may not sound like much, but it was a start. And it gave me a good feeling.
In the bush, if you don’t take responsibility for yourself you just don’t last. You go home hating the place or you don’t make it back at all. Sure, it’s good if you have somebody like Mary there to help you and get you ready, but when it comes right down to it, you’re on your own. That was the difference between her and my parents (and the other adults I’d known).
Mary would teach me anything — cooking over a fire, where to find dry wood in a rainstorm, how not to get lost — but somehow she always made it clear that the reason she taught me was so I wouldn’t need her around all the time. My parents were the opposite, always trying to make me dependent so they could control me. They picked my school, my career; even tried to choose my friends (then wondered why I never had any). Mary had said to me, “The greatest compliment you can give a teacher, Crabbe, is to say, ‘I don’t need you anymore.’”
Well, I figured I was ready to begin to live my life. I was healthy, strong, reasonably smart, and young. The fact that I didn’t have a clue what I’d do with my life didn’t bother me at all. One step at a time.
Having thought that, I fell asleep again.
Crabbe’s Journal: 20
I spent, altogether, two nights, one and a half days holed up, sleeping and thinking. When I finally came out I found myself in a different world. Around me the carved lines of great, swooping snowdrifts threw shadows across the snow, softening the bright morning light. Above, the sky was a hard, clear blue and the air was cold. The bush was so quiet I could hear my own breathing.
